The other day, I was relaxing at home, having gotten home from a
lively rehearsal, and I was catching up on the latest episode of
Project Runway (which I TiVoed because I'm too gorram busy to actually watch any of the shows I like at their scheduled time), when I heard a knock on the door.
I live in the middle of suburbia, so if someone unexpectedly knocks on my door, most likely they're either doing a dog census for the township or they're
Jehovah's Witnesses. Or both. Girding myself for the ensuing battle with one of God's
discreet (or is that discrete?) slaves, I opened the door to find, to my surprise, a rather shady-looking man who looked like he just stepped off the set of
The Sopranos. Not exactly the JW sort at all.
This guy was a short, bald, Italian with stubble on his chin and a pock-marked face. He wore a leather jacket and sported a small rhinestone cross in one ear. He was looking up at the roof on my garage, as if he wasn't exactly expecting me to answer the door at all. "Can I help you?" I asked.
"Hi. I was just wondering, do you know whose little blue car that is over there?" he asked, pointing to my car.
"It's mine. Why, do I need to move it for something?"
"No, no, it's just I noticed that you have a little dent in your fender and on the hood, ma'am."
Yes, I have a little ding on the front of my car. It's no big deal...actually, it's Ray's fault. He backed into my car with a utility van when he was trying to move one of his pinball games into the house. He promised to fix it, but when we found out it would cost $400, we both agreed it was a waste of money to fix something like that. It's purely a vanity fix.
But it still bothers me when people mention it, kind of like saying to someone, "Do you know you have a zit on your face?" as if that person hasn't spent an hour in front of the mirror agonizing over it. Let it alone, people. Tell me I have spinach between my teeth, but don't tell me I have an obvious dent on my fender or a zit on my face.
Gritting my teeth, I said, "Yes, I know I have a little ding there." He went on to tell me that he does auto bodywork, and he'd be happy to fix that right up for me. Using blatant used car salesman-like techniques, he managed to get me out of the house and onto the street to show me what he can do. He introduced himself (his name is Bobby) and explained that he knew all about European metalworking, and that he would do this job for much less than had been estimated for me before. In fact, he correctly guessed that we had been quoted $400, which was what got me out there in the first place. He on the other hand, offered to do it for $145.
While he was talking, I was making it perfectly clear through body language that I wasn't really interested in giving him money. I also looked around to make sure I wasn't alone with the slightly creepy "European metalworker." Across the street, there seemed to be a family reunion with at least four adults and a few children outside. Good. However, parked behind my car was a black Lincoln Towncar. How cliché. But hey, at least I knew they couldn't whack me in front of all these witnesses.
I must have been staring at the car a little too long, because the driver of the car stuck his hand out the window and waved at me. I turned back to Bobby and told him for the second or third time that I wasn't interested. He dropped his price to $125.
I said, "Look, all this is making me really uncomfortable. Why are you coming at me with this offer in this strange manner? I didn't ask for any help, and I didn't come looking for you. How did you even find me anyway? Were you just trolling the neighborhood looking for dented cars? What is going on?" I looked at the Towncar again. "Are you in any trouble?" I asked.
"No, no, nothing like that," he said, brushing away my questions. "My brother and I were in the neighborhood doing a job, and we just happened to see your car." I swallowed. A
job? What kind of job? Am I going to open the paper tomorrow morning and see my neighborhood on the front page?
He went on to say, "Our mother just passed away a couple weeks ago, and we really need the money. I'll do it for $90."
This guy obviously had very poor negotiating tactics. At this point, I just got fed up. As nicely as I could, I said, "I'm very sorry about your mother, and I appreciate that you're trying to get some work, but this is all highly irregular, and I'm really uncomfortable with this entire situation. I hope you realize that the way you're going about selling your talents makes it sound like a con." He immediately started to shake his head and tried to tell me all about his guarantee and that's why he's willing to do a free sample for me, but I went on to say, "Maybe it is and maybe it isn't, but I just am not willing to enter into a business transaction of this nature."
Seeing that he was about to start again with more sales tactics, I decided to use the Ray card. "Besides," I said, "call me old-fashioned, but I don't like to make any financial decisions without my fiancé here, and he won't be home for at least two or three hours." That seemed to shut him down. I thanked him and went back into the house.
And then I bolted the door.
The next day I told my dad about the incident, and his reaction was, "Oh yeah. Those are gypsies, of course."
Of course? How am I supposed to know that? Until now, I thought gypsies traveled in wooden wagons, sold handmade trinkets, and
gave souls to vampires. Apparently those days are over, and they now travel in Lincoln Towncars, sell auto body services, and...well maybe they still give souls to vampires. I'm not sure on that one.
But apparently, if you're firm enough with them, they do go away and don't bother you anymore.
Labels: bizarre, cranky
